


Here I Am, Stuck in the Middle with You

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [3]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, i love mr. white: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24176311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: Mr. White has never denied himself life's pleasures, not even while on the job. When it comes to his relationship with Mr. Orange, he's no different.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765930
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	Here I Am, Stuck in the Middle with You

**Author's Note:**

> *crying with my head in my hands* i love mr white 
> 
> this movie was too fucking good and too fucking gay. take my unabashed creamsicle and enjoy it  
> title from that scene. you know the one.

“Drinking hard for such a young guy,” White says, conspiratorial in how he leans in for Orange to hear.

Orange looks up, and there’s a glimmer in his eye. He smiles over the top of his whiskey, somehow showing the perfect number of teeth, and nods, raising his glass to White.

“It’s what the doctor ordered.”

They don’t become ghosts on a job – at least, White has never had to. He’s heard the tales of guys being made to hole up for a week, hardly show their face in fear of getting tagged, sure, everyone has. But gossip spreads among criminals just as it does everywhere else, men who’ve killed tittering like schoolgirls. White takes it all with a grain of salt, and heartily indulges that he himself can go for a drink.

The bar chatter is a soothing, distant lull. White hesitates for a second, but eventually takes a seat beside Orange. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. _Better than drinking alone._

He knows this place, and he didn’t expect to find Orange here. The team has split, gone their separate ways when not preparing for the heist. I don’t know you; you don’t know me. And since he could, White did what he always did: he went home.

Most of the men White worked with over the years lived in lavish houses, roiling in their wealth the way LA intended. White, he had never been a fan of that. He lived in a nice two-story with a generous master bedroom, and even that sometimes felt like too much. He hadn’t changed his own oil in years. 

But of course, he needed more, couldn’t just keep what he had. It was the nature of a thief. Or, he was doing a favor for an old friend. Whichever felt better for him that day.

Either way, this place is the pits. Its old men drinking scotch and playing poker, the air above their heads thick with cigar smoke. Orange had to be what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight years old? He should be somewhere that was jumping with people who still had lives to live.

White orders himself a martini, nodding at the bartender; a nice young woman called Jackie. White isn’t a regular here, not by a longshot, but he’s a conversationalist if you get enough liquor in him. He likes to say hello, be friendly. He’s polite, and he tips well. People remember that sort of thing.

Orange grins at him, sweeping a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” he drawls, snickering like he’s made the world’s funniest joke.

“It’s me –“ White starts to say, before it dawns on him. He snorts. “You little bastard.”

Orange fans his eyelashes at White, prettily dark over his rosy cheeks, and something drops in the pit of White’s stomach.

_Oh,_ he realizes, feeling stupid and slow, like trying to run through water. _He’s being coy._

He thought he was imagining it, before – the sidelong glances as they ran through operations, details of the wholesalers. As they discussed how they were going to get in and out of the heist, White was watching Orange, as Orange pretended not to watch him. It made him itch, having eyes on him like that.

He was going to tell Orange to knock it off, but something stopped him. It was – well. What else? It was an attraction.

It had been a long time since White had someone come onto him – since before Alabama, at least. And then here comes this foxy little thing, less than 30 years old, and he looks at White like he hung the goddamn moon, follows his every move with concentrated eyes. They’d become fast friends, after it was decided they would be paired up, but there was an underlying buzz, a pull. They had something, but they both wanted more.

Call it criminal nature. They were greedy sons-of-bitches, all of them.

And here White was. The ball, undoubtedly, in his court. This could be big trouble, he realizes, to get attached to a part of the job. They could all be buddy-buddy after a mission accomplished, but before the fact, it was no good. Anything could happen, and losing your pal hurts worse than losing your coworker.

Big trouble. Orange _was_ big trouble. He played the game too well, like he’d been doing it for years. You have to have a certain amount of conduct around people of their profession, and Orange played the flattery fiddle like he was born with it in his hands. Everyone liked Orange – and it made them blind.

Orange could be anyone. Hell, White himself could be anyone. Trust, and a job like this one; they should be like oil and water.

Jackie serves him his martini, smiling. He should down his drink and go home, take a cold shower, and go to bed. He’s going to. He swears he’s going to, but Orange opens his mouth, and it keeps him rooted to his seat.

“Can I take you to bed, stranger?” he says, low enough for only White to hear. He should punch him for it.

He should, but he doesn’t, just watches as Orange takes another pull from his whiskey, waiting patiently for his answer. He’s probably a little drunk, and it’s making him loose-lipped – White should dismiss his comment as bullshit. Teasing, maybe. A joke between friends.

He should, but he doesn’t. Orange smiles sweetly, knowing he’s won. He sets down his drink. White sticks a few bucks under his full martini glass and follows Orange out the door.

Orange’s apartment lacks the finesse of the truly grown-up – there are comic book covers tacked on the wall, for Christ’s sake. White finds himself thinking that it’s charming, in an odd way, despite the ugly blue of the walls, the brazen mess of newspapers and empty cups.

White taps his cigarette in Orange’s ashtray, smoke veiling his vision for a moment. Orange sleeps like the dead beside him, head on White’s chest, his belly rising with soft, even breathing. He looks like a boy like this, and White has the sudden terrible feeling that Orange should have found himself a regular job.

 _He’s just so fucking young_ , White thinks miserably, running his free hand through Orange’s hair. Young people are some of the dumbest, and some of the hardest to dissuade. No one could have gotten White out of the business, had he been in it at that age. Orange would be no different.

Orange opens his eyes at the touch. He hums pleasantly. “Got one of those for me?”

White finds his cigarette carton again, holds it out to Orange.

“And a light?”

White flicks his zippo once, then twice, before Orange can get a light going. Damn thing probably needed more juice. He slips it, and the cigarettes, back into his jacket.

He resumes running his hand through Orange’s hair. “Big day tomorrow,” he says.

“I’m fuckin’ ready,” Orange says mildly. He kisses White’s thumb where it rests above his shoulder. “Gonna be a goddamn breeze.”

“Knock on wood,” White murmurs. He puts his cigarette out, and, regrettably, unattaches himself from Orange. He pulls his pants on..

Orange watches him with hooded eyes, still puffing on his cigarette. White finishes dressing himself, kneels to pull on his shoes.

“What," Orange drawls lazily. "No kiss goodbye?" He’s taken White’s space on the bed, bare-chested and draped in the sheets like a fucking dream, like a delicious wet fucking dream you get the night after peeking at nudie magazines. White huffs. He wishes he could stay – but imagine the shock if Eddie were to pick them up together.

White kisses him, gentle, cupping his jaw in one hand. Orange is insistent, pressing against him like he wants round two – but White has to pull away. He makes himself, this time.

“See you tomorrow, kid,” he says, and slips out the door.


End file.
